63-11
by EffingHorus
Summary: The Great Crusade moves across the stars to spread reason and enlightenment into even the darkest corners of the galaxy. Sometimes, though, it meets resistance, and Horus Lupercal knows that all out war is not the only way to deal with it.


'_I was there the day Horus put some barbarian on the ground_. What kind of tale is that going to make?' Ezekyle Abaddon scoffed as he took in the amphitheatre before them. 'A waste of time, all of it.' Natives clad in colourful robes filled half its ranks. The other half was occupied with all sorts of people, from Astartes to Iterators to fleet personnel. Tarik could hear their excited murmur behind him. It wasn't every day, after all, that Lupercal enlisted them to join the audience of some tribal ritual. The Mournival was there too of course, sitting front and centre of the other Imperials.

As of yet there wasn't much to see. The sandy floor of the theatre - or was it an arena? - was still empty except for the tribe's colourful banners that flapped lazily in the breeze. The Luna Wolves had planted a few company banners of theirs too once they'd been informed that it was part of the tradition.

'The Army could have taken this place in weeks. But no, we're stuck here. And for what? A bloody wrestling match?' Abaddon snorted, but fell silent when the chieftain stepped down from his seat in the ranks, staff of office in hand and wearing some sort of bulky ceremonial garb.

A young iterator translated his words when he addressed the assembled tribespeople and their legion guests. The Iterator's voice carried through the amphitheatre with surprising ease, and her translation never faltered. Proto-Gothic. A strange tongue, archaic and with an almost alien ring to it. They'd heard it before, or variations of it at least, when they'd brought a few other scattered cultures in the same quadrant back into the fold. And while most of them had picked up some words and phrases, the Iterator had beaten them all, genehanced minds or no.

Only one being in the sixty-third Expeditionary Fleet had outpaced her, to the surprise of exactly no one. Horus Lupercal. Favoured son of the Emperor, beloved by all. Master of the Luna Wolves. And, right now, an actor in a strange ceremony on some unenlightened backwater world.

Tarik glanced at the First Captain with an amused glint in his eyes. 'I hear something like that is how the Emperor tamed Russ.'

Eyes narrowed, Abaddon scanned his face in search for hints of a jest. 'You heard that.'

Tarik's smile widened into a grin as he held Abaddon's stare. There weren't many others who didn't baulk under the First Captain's glare. 'I did, aye.'

'From whom?'

'Captain Hurn told me.'

'Captain Hurn said a lot of strange things before they interred him, and it hasn't gotten better since.'

Tarik shrugged with a hum of servos that made the nearby tribesmen stare. Not that they hadn't been staring already. The Astartes were the giants of myths made flesh to them and Tarik could've sworn he'd heard some of them mumble things that sounded suspiciously like superstitious talk of starfaring gods. Not that some weeks with the fleet's Iterators wouldn't fix that. 'Come on, Ezekyle. Let's simply hope they don't ruin our record here by giving each other bloody noses,' he said instead.

The world, a dustball at the outermost reaches of the quadrant the sixty-third Expeditionary Fleet had been sent to bring into compliance, was the sixth inhabited planet they had found there, and to the primarch's great joy it was the sixth panet to join the nascent Imperium peacefully - even if that meant taking part in the locals' ritualistic duel.

Caught between laughter at the absolute absurdity and indignation about what from any other man would have been an insult to their genefather, Abaddon made a noise that was half laugh and half cough. If he'd been about to answer, he never got the chance.

The combatants entered the arena, and they couldn't have been more different. The tribe's champion was no slouch. He stood tall for a baseline human, with hard muscles bulging under painted skin and tattoos that told of countless victories sprawling across his naked torso and broad back. Pale scars told of the many fights he'd survived in the past, as did the augmetics that replaced part of his right leg and left arm.

Yet when compared to Horus Lupercal he might have been a child, and from the look in his eyes, he knew that all too well. Tarik could almost see his knees shake, and if he had been any closer, he was sure he'd have smelled the man's fear too. But the champion didn't falter. He didn't turn away or step back. Tarik saw him draw a deep breath to steady himself, then he stepped forward and made an intricate hand gesture - a formal greeting, or something of that kind.

Horus mirrored the gesture perfectly, even though he'd only just seen it moments ago. The chieftain spoke a few more words - some sort of superstitious blessing to their gods, according to the Iterator's quick translation - and stepped back. The champion charged as soon as his master rammed the butt of his staff into the sand.

He came at the primarch with a scream and a flurry of blows, all of them deceptively quick and well placed despite the fear the man was without a doubt fighting. 'He is good, no question about that,' Hastur noted. He'd leaned forward on the stone bench and watched the proceedings closely. 'It's a shame that he is too old for the legion to take him in.'

Tarik nodded without taking his eyes off the mismatched pair. Horus moved quickly as he twisted aside or simply blocked the blows with his massive forearms. There was none of the preternatural speed to it that all four of them knew the primarch possessed, though. No, for all they could tell he was taking the measure of his opponent and gave the man a chance to do the same.

The primarch's blows didn't come at full power, that Tarik could tell. If they had, even a glancing hit would've meant broken bones and possibly death. But Horus didn't waste time playing around, either. He had the measure of his opponent now, and when he moved in to use it, even the Astartes with their improved sight struggled to see what he did.

One moment the champion stood, arms up to defend himself. The next moment he found himself on the sandy ground with one of the primarch's massive hands pinning him down and the other one raised to end him, should he as much as move. For a few heartbeats absolute silence hung over the arena. Only the distant rustle of leaves and the wailing cry of some alien bird broke it.

Then the chieftain slammed the butt of his staff into the sand once more and shouted in his strangely harsh tongue. More superstition, form what the Iterator translated. A thank you to their gods for presenting them with a victor. Abaddon just snorted in derision at at. There was a cheer from the tribespeople and all eyes turned to the primarch - if there even were any that hadn't been before. Tarik doubted it.

Down in the arena, Horus rose from his crouch and offered the champion a hand to pull the man to his feet as well. The primarch clapped his opponent on the shoulder before he addressed the assembled tribespeople in their own language - perfectly free of any accent, from what Tarik could tell. He smiled radiantly as he spoke, and while the champion's skin was beaded with sweat, the primarch looked not even the slightest bit out of breath. '_With that out of the way,_' the Iterator translated, '_I welcome you all into the Imperium of Mankind. Together we'll leave the terrors of Old Night behind and build a brighter future._'

A cheer went up in the arena at his words. The Iterators, the few that had already been down on the planet before that traditional fight, had apparently done their job well.


End file.
